


The Prodigal Father

by When_Tommy_Met_Alfie



Series: When Tommy met Alfie AU [31]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slurs, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 05:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17822789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/pseuds/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie
Summary: Arthur Senior returns to Birmingham, claiming to be a changed man. Tommy is forced to face memories he'd rather leave buried.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on these two requests from tumblr:  
> Hi!! Hope you’re doing well! So I was rereading Rebel Heart and it got me thinking about what would happen in Tommy’s Dad turned up again and saw Alfie. Of course Alfie will protect His Boy, but what if it leads Tommy to having some sort of panic attack or nightmare and he doesn’t want to tell Alfie it’s about his dad because he doesn’t want to seem weak? But Alfie loves Tommy and just wants him safe. (Bonus points if someone gets punched). Love your work as always x
> 
> “hi! could you maybe write something where tommy & alfie deal with tommy’s daddy issues. at first tommy is reluctant bc yknow ew feeling. but they talk and it’s really sweet and filled with tears on tommy’s part and soft reassurances and praise on alfie’s part and by the end of it tommy is just all cried out napping with alfie. bonus points if alfie starts acting slightly differently afterwards now that he understands more of his lover’s internal struggles. <3

Sometimes, Tommy can feel if there’s something wrong before he even enters a room. As if there’s this premonition in the air; a tension that is as clear as any visible signs. But today, there’s no such feeling when he enters his ancestral home. Not the slightest hint of what is about to unfold.

If there had been, he would’ve turned in the door.

It’s a bit more quiet than usual, perhaps. But other than that, everything is deceptively calm, and he wanders into the kitchen in a distracted sort of daze, mind still lingering on the papers in the office he should be taking care of. But it’s mid-day, and apparently people are supposed to eat then. At least according to Alfie.

He steps in through the kitchen door and can physically feel all colour drain from his face.

“Thomas, my boy!” Arthur Senior splays his arms in a greeting gesture, standing from his place by the kitchen table and walking towards him. “It’s good to see you. You look well. Still a bit on the scrawny side, though. Aren’t they feeding you?”

All the sounds in the kitchen –the kettle whistling on the stove, the bustle from the street outside, it all fades. His father looks very much like he did all those years ago; the lines on his face are deeper, and the dark hair is greying, but the change isn’t big enough to keep Tommy from feeling like he’s been dragged twelve years back in time. 

His entire body seizes up when Arthur Sr. pulls him into tight a hug. His nerves shoot waves of adrenaline through his muscles, tells them to shove the intruder away. But his arms won’t obey, and his brain is busy trying to get his lungs to start working again. So he just stands there, paralyzed, as his father pats his back and then grabs his shoulders, holding him at an arm’s length to give him a onceover. Meanwhile, Tommy’s eyes are frantically looking around the kitchen, only now discovering the other people occupying the room.

Arthur is by the kitchen table, a smile on his face and a glass of whiskey in his hand. Polly and John are stood by the counter, with less pleased expressions on their faces. No one else is there. Small mercies.

“Get out,” Tommy grits out when he finally regains his bearings enough to speak. His father raises both eyebrows and gives him an amused smile. It makes his skin crawl. He manages to shake off the hands on his shoulders, taking a step back.

“Now, son, I know we didn’t part on the best of terms,” Arthur Sr. says, gripping his shoulders again and squeezing them. Tommy’s guts clench painfully. All the muscles in his body are tightening around the organs, holding them in a vice like grip. His dad smiles, looking around the kitchen as if he’s preaching to a whole congregation as he proclaims: “But I’m a changed man! Found God. Made money. And I’m here to make amends.”

Tommy grabs his wrists and tears the hands away again. This time, his father leaves them hanging by his sides, still watching him with a look of utter confidence.

 “We needed you twelve years ago. But not now. It’s too late for all of that.”

“God teaches us that it’s never too late to forgive,” Arthur Sr. says, swiping his hand out in a grand gesture. Polly lets out an audible snort. “I’m here now. And I’ve got money.” He turns to his eldest son and smiles. “And I’m here to help my son with the business.”

Tommy snorts and moves to pull out a cigarette. But his hands are trembling and he quickly draws them back to fold his arms over his chest instead, before his father can see it.

“Are you going to tell him or should I?” He pins Arthur with his gaze, watching his older brother squirm.

“Well, dad, I’m not…” Arthur begins, clearing his throat. “I mean, there was some trouble, and-“

“Tommy’s in charge of the business,” John speaks up, squaring his jaw. “Me and Arthur help of course. But Tommy’s in charge. He’s got the best head for it.”

Tommy allows himself a grateful look at his younger brother.

The tension in the room builds, a tightening noose, as their father takes a few slow steps towards his eldest son, squeezing his shoulder. “Is that true, my boy?”

Arthur nods stiffly. ”Yeah, yeah, sure,” he says, hesitating. “Tommy’s… done a good job.”

Arthur Sr. turns his attention back to Tommy, who tightens the grip around his chest in a vain attempt to make his arms stop trembling. Cursing his body for reacting this way, for not listening to his frantic thoughts of _‘you’re not twelve anyone, he can’t do anything to hurt you’_.

But he knows that’s a fucking lie. He’s got enough scars to prove it.

“Is that so?” Arthur Sr. says, dragging the words out and looking him up and down. The fear shoots like a bolt of lightning down his spine. _Run. Get out. He’s going to hurt you_ \- his father smiles. “Well, then I’m all the happier. I’m glad all three of my sons are involved in the family business. Always figured you’d end up in the stables, Tom.” The smile widens a fraction. Tommy forces himself to meet his father’s gaze. There’s something in those eyes that doesn’t match the smile. “But now I hear the business has expanded to London, and I suppose that must be thanks to you, then, Tom?”

Returning to the kitchen table, he pours tea into an already half full cup. Tommy hates how grateful he feels to no longer have his father towering over him.

Arthur’s smile returns, and the tension melts from even John’s shoulders. Polly has wary lines around her mouth still, and Tommy shifts his gaze to her, trying to find some solace in her steady gaze.

“Yeah. We’ve been doing just fine without you,” he then says, staring coldly at his father who still looks eerily at ease. “Better than we ever did with you here, really.”

For just a fraction of a second, something dark crosses Arthur Sr.’s face.

Right then, the front door opens.

Then, familiar steps are coming down the hallway, the tell-tale sound of a cane tapping against the floor.

“Tommy, sweetheart, you alright? Looking like you’ve seen a ghost over there.” Alfie’s voice comes from the kitchen door. An arm wraps around Tommy’s waist and he’s pulled against Alfie’s side as a quick kiss is pressed against his temple. The greeting is so routine that it simply happens, without Alfie even bothering to take in the rest of the room.

In one instant, the noose seems to tighten, and everyone in the kitchen stops breathing  

Tommy watches his father’s face: sees the emotions flicker across it in a matter of moments, before he has time to mask them. Anger. Disgust.

Alfie discovers their company now, too, and is in his usual fashion entirely unfazed, keeping the arm around Tommy’s waist as he looks Arthur Sr. up and down.

“We’ve got a guest, I see,” he says calmly. Glances around the room at the rest of the inhabitants. “Judging by the fucking air in here I’d say it’s not a very welcomed one, either.”

Arthur Sr. looks briefly taken aback before he once again gets his face under control. “Seeing as it’s my house, I do think I have a say in whether I’m welcomed here or not.” He looks to Arthur. “I reckon an introduction is in order.”  

Arthur gets to his feet, clearing his throat. “Dad, this is Alfie Solomons. Solomons, this is our father, Arthur Senior.” Neither of the men stretches their hand out. Arthur licks his lips. “Solomons is- he’s a business partner and-” he swallows thickly, looking at Tommy with a glint of desperation in his eyes. Tommy just raises both eyebrows, keeping his mouth shut. “And, well, a friend, of Tommy’s-”  

“We’re fucking,” Tommy says bluntly.

The silence in the room is deafening.

John is alarmingly pale. Polly’s knuckles tighten where they clutch the kitchen counter.

Tension creeps into the arm around Tommy’s waist.

Then, Arthur Shelby Sr. barks out a laugh.

“Tommy, my boy, you never cease to amaze me,” he chuckles. “Got yourself a man and expanded the business all at once, did you? Now that’s a move your granddad would’ve been proud of-“ He takes a step towards them, but the tip of Alfie’s cane comes up to rest on his chest.  

“Nah I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says and pulls Tommy a bit closer. Tommy should resist it, of course, but all he wants to do is huddle up against him and close his eyes until his father has disappeared. Like a fucking child.

 Arthur Sr. throws both hands up in the air and takes a step back, still with that fucking smile plastered on his face.

“Alright, you’re protective of him, I get it,” he says, returning to the table to take a mouthful of tea. Glances at Alife. “I’m assuming you’re the same Solomons as the Jew who runs half of London?”

“Mister Shelby with all due respect,” Alfie says, voice firm. “Which really is none at all, I reckon, for how long do you plan on standing here in a kitchen where you’re clearly not welcome? Judging by the expression of… three quarters of its inhabitants.”

“No one’s asked him to leave,” Arthur snaps.

“Tommy did. The second he came inside the door,” Polly says dryly, and is rewarded with a glare.

“Then I suggest you do that,” Alfie says.

Arthur Sr. looks to Tommy. “Son, I know that I haven’t exactly been understanding of your little… affliction, so to speak. But I only did it to protect you. You know how the world works. But I’m here to make amends, as I said. Start over. And I’m glad that you’ve found someone.”

“Oh, come on, Arthur. What the fuck do you want?” Polly says, rolling her eyes. “Showing up here and talking about starting over. That’s not the man I know. So why don’t you just come out and say it? Why are you here?”

Arthur Senior looks calmly at his sister.

“I just want my family back. That is all.”

Tommy grapples to understand what his father is playing at, but while his mind is racing, his body is still deciding to act on its own accord, the trembling in his hands growing worse with every passing second and the lack of air is making him feel light headed. He needs to get his father out before he falls apart all together.

“Get the fuck out of this house,” he says. “It’s been a long time since you were part of this family.”  

“Now hold on,” Arthur speaks up again. “What has he done except being perfectly civil since the second you-“

“It’s too late for that. Twelve fucking years too late,” Tommy hisses, doing his best to stare his father down as he turns to him. “Think you can just waltz in here and all will be forgotten? As if the last twelve years never happened-“ As if the last _thirty_ years didn’t happen. As if the last time Tommy saw his father wasn’t through a veil of tears, curled up on a stable floor and clutching a broken arm. Pulling himself out of the unpleasant memory, he lets the hand on his waist steady him and says as firmly as he can manage: “Get out.”

His father watches him, with that cold glint in his eyes. Tommy’s gaze slips to the floor. It’s just a moment of weakness. But it’s enough. And when he looks up again, he can’t bear to look his father in the eye.

“Fine, son, you need more time, I understand,” Arthur Sr. finally says sweetly. But Arthur takes a stride towards Tommy, only stopping when Alfie holds the cane out in a warning gesture. Arthur scowls at Tommy.

“You’ve got no fucking right to-“

Arthur Sr. pats his son’s back.

“Not to worry, Arthur, my boy. Tommy’s always been sensitive, hasn’t he? Takes after his mother, both in appearance and temper.” Tommy wonders if anyone else notices the mocking edge to his voice. His father sneers. “And we have to respect that, don’t we? I don’t mind.”

“Well I fucking mind,” Arthur hisses, still glaring daggers at him. “You don’t get to fucking decide who comes and goes in this house.”

Alfie pulls Tommy away from the door as Arthur Sr. ushers his eldest son towards it. Tommy gratefully moves away from them, stepping a bit closer to Alfie.

“We’ll go for a walk,” his dad tells Arthur. “You can show me that pub of yours.”

Arthur continues glaring at Tommy as he passes.

Tommy stares straight ahead.

The second the front door slams, everything comes tumbling down.

“Who the fuck let him into the house,” Tommy snaps, twisting out of Alfie’s grip and staring at Polly and John. “Why didn’t you fucking throw him out the second he set foot in here?”

“Tommy-“ He shrugs off Alfie’s hand when it comes to rest on his shoulder. Begins pacing the floor as he tries fighting back the panic.

“For how long did you let Arthur sit there and listen to his bullshit?”

John shrugs, looking sheepish, but Polly’s eyes are sharp.

“Thomas, he’s been nothing but civil since he set foot in this house.”  

“You can’t tell me you’re actually buying that?” Tommy spits, his heartbeat rapidly gaining speed. “Because if you are then you’re as delusional as Arthur and you might as well-“

“Of course not,” Polly cuts him off. “But we need to understand why he’s here. And what game he’s playing. I would prefer to know what kind of threat he poses.”

Tommy huffs out a humourless laugh. Wants to light a cigarette, but can’t even fucking feel his hands properly.

“He did… seem sort of changed though,” John says hesitantly. “Didn’t have a drop of whiskey and-I mean… he was kind of decent about you and Alfie.”

“You fucking bought that ‘I’m a changed man’ act?” Tommy snorts, not bothering to point out that calling his sexual preferences an ‘affliction’ could hardly count as ‘being decent’ about it. Alfie comes up behind him, his hand once again finding his waist.

“Tommy, sweetheart, how about we go for a walk? Let you clear your head.”

“It _is_ clear! He’s the same piece of shit he always was.” Tommy turns to look at him, a stab of fear shooting down his guts again. “Or don’t you believe me?”

“Of course I do, love, but-“

“He’s not fucking capable of change, it’s-“ He chokes on his words, the tremors in his hands traveling up his arms, into his shoulders, his entire body. The air gets caught in his throat. He knows this feeling –the cold sweat drenching his back, the heartbeats drumming violently against his ribcage -it’s all familiar, and he knows that he just needs to breathe through it, just breathe, it’ll all be okay-

But their father is back. And he’s going to take them all away from him- First Arthur and then John and-

If they have to choose, no one is going to pick him-

Black dots begin creeping into his vision, increasing with every failed attempt to draw air down into his lungs.

_No one is ever going to pick you, because you’re weak and useless and such a fucking disappointment-_

Alfie’s face swims in and out of vison, blurry, far away and then close and then far away again.

_There’s no place for people like you in this world_

“Tommy, sweetheart, stay with me alright-“

He closes his eyes. Loses grip of his surroundings, feeling the floor rock underneath him

Gentle hands grab his shoulders- He doesn’t want them there. They’ll turn on him and

become violent, they’ll hurt him-

“We’re going to sit down for a bit, alright, love. Just sit down and rest-“ His legs give away under him, and the hands at least help him sit down on the floor. He draws his knees up to his chest, needs to protect himself, wishes he could just disappear-

“What the fuck is going on?”

He can’t place the voices, doesn’t even know if they’re real or all in his head.

“Can we do something to help?”

“Just give him some space, alright. Fucks sake…” Alfie. Alfie’s voice, Alfie’s hands- he’s safe, Alfie won’t hurt him. “Tommy, love, it’s okay, I’ve got you- We’re going to count for a bit, breathe and count until it feels better…“

He grips onto the lapels of Alfie’s jacket, head falling forward to rest against his chest and tries to breathe. Tries to count- four in, hold it four- Alfie’s arms wrap around his back, strong and secure, and they pull him close, close- Nothing can hurt him here.

“I’m here, darling, it’s alright. Keep breathing. It’ll pass…”  Alfie continues whispering soothing nonsense into his hair. And slowly, the muscles loosen their vice like grip around his lungs and he can breathe again. His heart stops its attempts at escaping his ribcage and the ringing sound in his ears fade…

He finds himself back in the kitchen. On the floor, huddled in Alfie’s arms.

“Better?” Alfie noses his hair, rubbing his back gently. Tommy nods. He doesn’t want to emerge from his hiding-place, suddenly all too aware of what just happened; that he lost control. That John and Polly were there to witness it. That they’ll see now, they’ll realise…

“Think you can stand up, love?”  

His legs are a bit shaky, but Alfie is as steady as ever, helping him back on his feet. The exhaustion hits him like a sledge hammer, leaving him swaying on his feet and struggling to take in his surroundings  

Polly is watching him with wary eyes, concerned wrinkles sharp between her eyebrows. Even John looks a bit pale. Neither of them say anything, and then Alfie is leading him towards the door and Tommy is just letting it happen.

“If you excuse us, think that me and Tommy will be taking a break from family-time for a little while, alright? Only so much of it a person can take.”

And with that, Alfie leads him out of the kitchen and into the hallway, where he sets off towards the stairs. “You can have a lie down for a bit, while I pack-“ Tommy struggles to make sense of what he’s saying… “Reckon that if we leave now we’ll get home at a pretty decent time-“

“What?” he finally mutters, halting his step right when they reach the stairs.

“Figured you might want to get out of here for a few days,” Alfie says. “Go to London. Until that man has left again.”

Tommy shakes his head, slowly.

“No, no, I can’t do that. I can’t leave them here with him.”

“Oh don’t worry about that now, love. I’ll have a word with Pol. Make sure she-“

“No, you don’t understand I- Finn is here, I can’t leave-“ Tommy pauses, feeling some of the fog in his head dissipate, and manages to steady his voice. “I’m not running away from him. I’m not a fucking child.”

Surprisingly, Alfie nods slowly, even as his brows draw together.

“Fine, then,” he sighs. “Fine, love, we’ll stay.” Alfie’s palms feel warm as they rub his upper arms. “But you should still lie down for a bit.”

Tommy shakes his head again, going to grab his coat.

“I need to go to the shop. And weren’t you supposed to go to the brewery?”

“You need to rest,” Alfie insists. “Always drains you, these things. I’ve seen you fall asleep by your fucking desk after far less severe episodes. And what good will come of that, eh?”

The hand grabbing his arm causes Tommy to wince. He tears himself out of the grasp.

“Stop telling me what I need!” he snaps, and Alfie lets his hand falls limply to his side. Immediately regretful, Tommy grabs it, and adds in a softer tone, “Sorry- I just need to get out of the house for a bit. Get some work done.”

Though the promise of a bed does sound a lot more tempting.

The promise of curling up in Alfie’s arms in one even more so.

Alfie watches him, forehead set in deep creases. Then, his shoulders sag.

“Whatever you need, love,” he says, grabbing his own coat. “But I’m following you to the fucking door. Won’t have you collapsing somewhere in the gutter from exhaustion. Which, all things considered, is quite likely.”

After this little speech, Alfie falls silent.

The silence lingers as they walk towards the shop. With his hands finally under some semblance of control again, Tommy lights a cigarette, dragging the smoke deep into his lungs.

When he’s well into his second cigarette, Alfie speaks up.

“So, your father is back.”

“Seems that way, yeah.”

Alfie is watching him with that look in his eyes; the one that tells Tommy this is not the end of the discussion. Can’t blame him, of course. Collapsing in a hyperventilating heap is something that calls for a longwinded conversation, at least in Alfie’s eyes. That much he knows.

But for now, Alfie settles for just walking silently by his side, cane tapping steadily against the cobblestones.

Tommy lights a third cigarette.

He can feel them again, for some reason. All the scars. All the old bruises, long faded now. As if they’ve begun bleeding and throb dully with pain again underneath his clothes.

Perhaps that’s why he winces when Alfie’s arm brushes his.

He tries to tell himself that, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

Alfie is reluctant to leave Tommy all alone in the shop. The only sane thing would be to stay, of course, make sure he doesn’t collapse over the desk or something. But Tommy’s had enough people ignore his word today, so when he for the third time promises that he’s fine, Alfie sighs, kisses his forehead and goes to make sure no one fucks anything up at the brewery.

The afternoon passes by quickly –he’s too caught up in his own head to fully feel the hours drift by, or to do much good around the brewery. He mostly grunts at people’s idiocy and tries avoid taking out his frustration on anyone in worse ways than simply yelling at them. Would just be a wonderful addition to this day, wouldn’t it, if he managed to shoot one of their employees too?

He can’t get the image of Tommy’s wide, terrified eyes out of his head. The way he flinched ever so slightly every time his father came closer. The faint tremor to his hands. Just these tiny things. Whatever that man has done, it’s left a mark. And Alfie is not entirely sure how he’ll move on from this realisation without having to shoot Arthur Sr. in the fucking head.

When it’s approaching dinner time, he decides that enough is enough, and goes back to the shop to see if Tommy is still hiding in the office. He is. Seated by the desk with a cigarette between his fingers and a bottle of whiskey before him.

Alfie knocks on the doorframe to announce his presence and Tommy’s head snaps up, eyes wide and breathing hitching. But he quickly straightens his features and gives him one of those faint smiles. The kind that incites a burning urge in Alfie to find anyone who’s ever laid hand on him and bash their head in with a rusty pipe.  

And Arthur Senior is at the top of that list at this very moment.  

“Think it’s time to eat something, love,” Alfie says, approaching the desk. “Reckon there’s been enough work for one afternoon, wouldn’t you say?”  

Tommy nods slowly. Blinks down at the document before him.

It’s empty. Just as the one next to it.

There isn’t even a pen on the desk.   

“Go on then, let’s get home,” Alfie says. “Home, and then we’ll make an early exit. Get you into a warm bed, alright? Where I can make sure you forget all about this rather unpleasant day.”

He hooks a hand under Tommy’s arm and gently pulls him out of his chair. Tommy is steady on his feet, and judging by his breath, he hasn’t drunk quite as much as Alfie feared. Good, that’s good. They’re making improvements on that front…

Tommy is quiet as Alfie hangs his coat over his shoulders. Quiet when Alfie places a hand on the small of his back. Quiet as they leave the empty shop and exit out onto the street. Apparently it’s one of those days when Alfie will be doing all the talking.

When they have walked almost a block while he gives a recap of his day, and they can see the house on Watery Lane, Tommy stops.

Alfie does the same. Gives Tommy a moment, before asking: “You sure you don’t want to go to London? I’m sure Polly can hold her own. They’ll be fine.”

Tommy shakes his head slowly, but stays frozen on the spot. “I can’t leave.”

“But you don’t want to go home?”

Right then, Tommy looks like the lost and frightened little boy Alfie usually finds himself comforting after a nightmare. Or staying up with all night on the sofa, every light in the house turned on because he can’t bear the darkness. But he’s never seen him like this in broad daylight, out on an open street.

“The Garrison, then? Or a hotel? We’d still be in town, just not in the house,” Alfie coaxes. “Would that help?”

“I- I don’t know,” Tommy says quietly, eyes widening slightly. As if he’s surprised by his own answer, taken aback by the fact that he can’t make a decision, because they are all impossible…

 Alfie will be the one making the decisions, then.  

“Well, I know where we’ll go,” he states, putting a hand between Tommy’s shoulder blades and turning him around. The fact that Tommy doesn’t protest only serves to worry him further.

Tommy is quiet all the way to the stables. But then, he finally speaks.  

“The hayloft?” he says, a smile ghosting over his lips when Alfie gestures up the ladder.

“Figured that if it was a good hiding place back in the day, it’s just as good now. Know that you feel safe up there.”

Tommy ascends the ladder with ease, reaching down to take Alfie’s hand and pull him up the last bit and into the loft.

And it might just be a fucking hayloft, rickety and old, but it still holds an element of otherworldliness. The last bit of afternoon sunlight is streaming in through the wide gaps between the boards, catching in the hay surrounding them. And the hay swallows the bustle of the town outside, creating an oddly soft silence in the large room.

Tommy’s shoulders sag. And Alfie knows this was a good decision.

Tommy keeps holding his hand as he leads him between the stacks of hay.

Alfie lets him take the lead, and finds himself by the far edge of the loft, in this space tucked right behind a large stack of hay, with the wall overlooking the yard on one side, and hay on the other.

Tommy pulls his coat off, settling it down onto the hay and seating himself on top of it, legs crossed and back leaned against a bale of straw. The position seems to be comfortingly familiar. Looks… right, somehow

“So, what now?” he asks, looking up at Alfie with those deceptively innocent, brigh blue eyes.

“Figured we’d just stay here for a little bit,” Alfie says, sitting down next to him. “Nap. Sort out some things… Just get away from it all.”

Tommy nods slowly and stares up at the ceiling.

Two birds are flying in and out of a nest they’ve built under one of the beams.

Alfie watches them, letting the silence in the loft swallow him for a bit.  

The air seems fresher in here somehow, as if the hay has filtered out all the dust and smog from the streets outside.

But there are indeed streets outside. A real world. And sooner or later, they will have to face that. Which means Alfie will have to start asking questions.

“So, you know I’m about to ask, love. What’s the deal with your father?” he asks “And I mean I do know little… bits and pieces.” He scratches his beard, searching for words. “But… judging from what happened in the kitchen, there’s a whole lot more to this thing than just the odd… smack over the head.”  

Tommy’s shoulders go rigid and he buries his fingers in the hay.  

“Why do you need to know about this? It’s not… it’s all in the past.”

“Well, it’s clearly hurting you now, love,” Alfie says. “And, I know you’ll call me a fucking sap or something of the sort, as you tend to do, but I’d like to know everything about you. Can’t go your whole life ignoring your entire childhood.”

“You know things about my childhood,” Tommy retorts, picking up a straw and worrying it between his fingers.

“I do. I know that you used to sleepwalk, that you collected nice rocks and kept them in a shoebox,” Alfie says softly. “That your mum used to take you to the stables And plenty of other things. Both good and bad. But you don’t ever talk about your father.”

Tommy splits the straw and begins tearing small strips from it.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Alfie resists the urge to sigh.

“Alright, I’m just going to make a few assumptions here then, based on my knowledge of the situation, and some common facts of life,” he says. “Your dad beat you, did he? Quite a bit, I’m assuming. He seems like the fucking type. And judging by the way he spoke about you –I distinctly remember the word ‘affliction’ being mentioned, I’d say he wasn’t very accepting of said… affliction.”

There’s a long pause. So long in fact that Alfie wonders if he’s fucked up and Tommy has closed himself off completely.

But then, Tommy finally speaks up. And it’s so quiet and so fucking insecure and Alfie is overwhelmed by the urge to find his piece of shit father and-

“Sometimes I wonder if he always knew,” he begins “And if that’s why he hated me so much. But maybe I just tried telling myself that because it was easier to think that… there was a specific reason.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Instead of it being everything else about me.”

Alfie stays quiet, barely daring to breathe for fear of ruining this. Tommy picks up another straw and repeats the process of tearing it into small pieces.

“One time… he stole this horse,” he says. Slowly, as if the words hold an incomprehensible weight. “And she was a bit too old, really, to use for racing. Hard to sell. I hung around in the stables a lot, and I used to… look after her.” The straw sliced into ribbons now. He picks up another one. “Then one day she pulled up lame. And dad said we’d have to put her down. I overhead him talking to my uncle about it.” New straw. New pieces. Eyes fastened on his hands. “And I began crying. Begged him not to do it. So dad brought me down to the stables, and he shot that horse right in front of me. I was… just eight years old. But dad said he was doing me a favour, because no real man would ever cry about a fucking horse.”

Tommy seems to shrink right before his eyes, as if every sentence is chipping away at him.  

Alfie becomes afraid suddenly, that maybe he’s reopening wounds he doesn’t know how to close. An image of Tommy as a kid, tiny and underfed with those big, blue eyes, flashes by in his head. And the rage simmers under his skin.

Tommy keeps talking, but it even quieter now. As if he’s speaking to no-one but himself-

“When I was little I used to think that if I just tried hard enough… If I just was a bit more like Arthur, I’d stop being such a disappointment to him. But nothing ever seemed to work,” he says. “So eventually I just stopped trying. Easier that way, just being a failure because I’d decided to be one. ”

“How did Arthur handle all of this?”  

“What was he supposed to do?” Tommy retorts sharply, before his voice goes quiet again. “It’s- it was hard for him. He was just a kid too. And we tried looking out for John and Ada. Figured that as long as he stayed away from them, nothing else really mattered. It worked for the most part.”

Alfie nods, trying to convince himself that he does get it.

“What about your mum?” he asks carefully, hoping Tommy won’t take it the wrong way. Sensitive territory, all of this. A fucking minefield. Unsurprisingly, a sad shadow crosses Tommy’s face

“She tried her best,” he says softly. “But she had it worse. And she’d been with him for years.” Shaky breath in. A just as shaky breath out. “Dad hated weakness. Or what he perceived as weakness. So the fact that she- that she wasn’t well… he took it like some sort of personal fucking offence.” He swallows thickly. “But she was much stronger than him. Just in a different way.”

Tommy stares into the hay at the opposite side of the aisle, eyes glazed over. His fingers have stopped their movements. A sad smile crosses his lips.

“We were always closer. She was the one who taught me how to ride, and look after the horses. Suppose we were more similar.”

“You got your eyes from her?” Alfie reaches out, runs his fingers gently along his temple, up through his hair and cradling his head.

“Yeah,” Tommy whispers. “And probably all my… not so reprehensible qualities.” A crease appears between his eyebrows. “I think he hated me for that too.”

Tommy reaches up and runs a finger over the scar on his right cheek. Then he quickly returns to picking apart straws.

“Uncle Charlie helped. He tried to, at least. But it’s hard, to know all the things that goes on in another man’s home. Behind closed doors. So I don’t think he realised how bad things were. But when things finally went too far, he did help.”

“I’m afraid to fucking ask, but what does _too far_ mean in this context?” Alfie asks. Even though he’s not sure if he can handle the answer.

Tommy shakes his head, lowering it and avoiding Alfie’s gaze. His hands have gone from restless fidgeting to oddly still again. For a moment, Alfie swears that he’s stopped breathing too.

“Tommy-“

“It’s my fault that our dad left,” he whispers, almost inaudibly. “He was gone for… months at a time before that, but when he finally left for good, it was my fault.”

“Tommy, love, how could it possibly be your fault?”

Tommy hunches his shoulders, drawing his knees to his chest.

“And even if it would’ve been,” Alfie continues, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Judging by what I’ve seen today, I’d say it was for the best-“  

Tommy shakes his head again.

 

“No, you don’t understand-“ his voice wont quite hold. “Things are alright now but, but when he left, we had to fight just to keep our heads above water. We nearly ended up on the street, and it- it was my fault. If I hadn’t-“

He closes his eyes, jaw clenching tightly as his shoulders quake from a choked sob.

Alfie pulls Tommy closer, until he finally relaxes into his embrace. Tommy digs his fingers into his shirt and clenches it tightly, breathing shallow and uneven. And Alfie holds him. Expects tears, or more sobs, but Tommy somehow manages to swallow it all down.

“It’s okay, love, better to let it out, remember?” Alfie mutters into his hair. But Tommy just shakes his head again, clings a bit tighter to him and buries his face against his chest.  

Alfie is quiet, then. Because there’s nothing he can say that will make any of this better.

For a long time, they sit like that.

 

It’s dark when they finally make their way back to Watery Lane.

Alfie stops by the steps up to the house. Turning to face Tommy, he leans heavily on his cane and lets out a sigh.

“I think we should make it perfectly clear, alright,” he says. “I won’t let that man come within five fucking feet of you. What Arthur chooses to do I can’t do shit about, unless we want to turn to violence here, but your father is a different deal alright. And if I see him in this house again, I’m going to whack him over the face with my cane.”

Tommy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We have to… let this play out for a bit. Like Pol said. Figure out what he’s actually doing here.” Tommy gives him a bleak smile. “So we should probably hold off on the whacking for now.”

“Fine,” Alfie grunts. “But the second he puts his hands anywhere near you, that plan is off the table. I’m not about to just fucking stand there and let him hurt you.”  

A protest is to be expected, of course, but Tommy just nods slowly, pale and uncharacteristically timid. And right then, it takes every ounce of willpower for Alfie to not simply pick him up and carry him away to the car. Drive all the way to London and not fucking let him set foot in Birmingham as long as that fucking piece of shit of a father is still walking the shitty streets.

He doesn’t do that, of course. That’s not how it works.

But he puts a hand on Tommy’s back as they enter the house.

It’s blissfully empty and quiet.

“Sleep?” he mutters when they’re finally upstairs and under the duvet. “Or should we try to get your mind off this unpleasant day first?” He runs a hand up Tommy’s thigh.

Tommy curls up close to him and kisses him softly. “I’d like that.”

Alfie rolls them over and gets to work on that.

…

Thankfully, Arthur Senior stays away from the house the next day. But his presence can somehow be felt throughout the house, like a tension in the air. Everyone is a bit on edge: Polly seems to be far away in her own mind, John snaps at Esme until she sends him out to ‘walk it off’, Finn is anxiously sneaking around the corridors, listening in on conversations and asking question that no one quite knows how to answer. And Ada has taken refuge at Jessie’s, stating that she won’t be setting foot in the house until she is sure her father won’t show up there.

Meanwhile, Tommy refuses to eat, and never seems to be fully present, eyes distant and his response to questions slow and absentminded.

And of Arthur Junior, there’s no trace.

When dinner rolls around, Arthur is still missing, and Tommy spends the entire meal completely silent, meticulously cutting a potato into small pieces that he doesn’t eat. Alfie begins to seriously consider what his chances are of shooting Arthur Senior in the face and dumping the body in the cut, without being noticed.

….

The fragile peace in the household isn’t to last, of course.

Because the next afternoon, when Alfie has managed to coax Tommy away from the office to at least try to eat some toast, they find Arthur Sr. seated by the kitchen table together with his eldest son.

Alfie sees the fear in Tommy’s eyes, sees it course through his veins and creep into his muscles. He stops on the threshold – _in or out, fight or flight-_ Alfie is just about to take him by the waist and lead him away from the kitchen, but then Tommy takes a determined step over the threshold. He follows.

“Afternoon, son,” Arthur Sr. says and smiles amiably at Tommy, who walks up to stand by the counter, arms crossed over his chest.

“Thought I made it clear you’re not welcome in this house.”

“I’m a guest of your brother, who owns this house just as much as you do,” Arthur Sr. says calmly. “I thought we could just have a word, you and I. Start building some trust again.”

Alfie sets his eyes on Arthur, tries to convey entirely from a sharp look what he’s thinking: _How the fuck could you do this? Let this man into your home after everything he’s done._ Or perhaps most of all, try to strangle him through the sheer force of glaring.

“All I ask is that you give me a chance to show you that I’ve truly changed,” Arthur Senior continues. _As if it fucking matters. As if any change is big enough to forgive-_ Alfie grips the handle of his cane a bit harder.

“At least hear him out, Tom,” Arthur says when Tommy remains silent.

 “What happened to your face?” he asks Arthur then, giving the faintly bruised jaw a pointed look. Arthur grins widely.

“Just did a bit of sparring, me and dad.”

“All in good fun, with gloves of course,” Arthur Sr. says, squeezing his son’s shoulder, before turning to Tommy. “I assume you still don’t have any interest in the sport, my boy?”

Tommy doesn’t answer and Alfie feels a new kind of unease in the pit of his stomach at the lack of a sharp retorts.  Arthur Senior looks his way, shooting him a smile. “Tommy would always rather be out in the stables petting the horses. Not quite suited for the ring, I’d say.”

“Well, considering his horses success on the track I reckon it was a good idea. Being in the stables,” Alfie says, leaning his cane against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “But you must know all about that, being so… prolific in the field yourself.”

Arthur Senior’s nostrils twitches, the cool smile unwavering.

“Yes. Always good with the horses my Tommy,” he says. “Very fond of them. He used to braid their manes, did you know that? Pick flowers for them. Rather endearing, really.” A chuckle follows the words, and Arthur Sr. sneers at Tommy. “Felt like I had two daughters instead of just the one.”

Tommy’s eyes flicker to the floor, a bright blush creeping up his neck. Arthur Sr. lifts his teacup and takes a sip, eyes locking onto Alfie’s again. Alfie stares back. Had it not been for Tommy’s hand brushing against his wrist, he might have put his fist in his face right then.

“What about you then, Solomons, any interest in boxing?”

“Not really my thing,” Alfie says. “See I prefer to keep my spare time separated from the business, yeah? Tends to be enough of that sort of violence already. But make no mistake, I can throw a pretty good punch if the situation calls for it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Arthur Sr. says and lifts his teacup again. “Got the right build for it.”

A spark lights up in Tommy’s eyes –the kind that bodes trouble.

“He does, doesn’t he?” he says sweetly and takes Alfie’s arm, looking adoringly at him, before giving his father a slight smile. “It’s good, that. I like that he can really pin me down when he fucks me.”  

Arthur chokes on his tea.

Arthur Sr.’s smile finally dies.

And Tommy stares at his father, eyes glinting.

“We’ve done it on this table once, you know,” he says and cocks his head ever so slightly. “Fucked. We came home from the Garrison, and no one else was up-“ Red specks are flaring up on Arthur Sr.’s neck. Tommy takes a step towards him. “-And Alfie bent me over this table and fucked me so hard I could barely walk afterwards.”

“Tommy-“ Alfie reaches for Tommy, feeling like they’re treading a very dangerous path here. Tommy shrugs the hand off, eyes cold as he digs them into his father.

“See, I just love that… being held down, having a big hard cock filling me up-“   

“I fucking swear Tommy!” Arthur flies up from his chair, eyes wild and chest heaving. Alfie reacts on pure instinct; grabs Tommy by the arm, pulls him backwards and puts himself in front of him in one swift movement. Arthur gets right up in his face, looking like a bull ready to impale someone on its horns.  

“I’d think real hard about what your next step will be, Arthur,” Alfie hisses. “Because I’ve just been itching to punch someone since the moment I set foot inside this fucking kitchen.”  

Arthur clenches his hands into fists, gritting his teeth “Why do you have to fucking be like this?” he snaps, staring at Tommy and trying to step around Alfie. Alife throws an arm out to block his way. Arthur settles for glaring at his brother, spitting: “Why do you have to just… try to fucking ruin everything?”

Arthur Sr. wipes his mouth and stands up, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Now, Arthur, your little brother is clearly upset with me, and this is his way of showing it. So I think it’s better if I leave now.”

Grunting, Arthur takes a step back.

“Yeah, think that would be for best, alright,” Alfie says. “And I propose we put these fucking visits up to some sort of vote, alright? Because I’m guessing there are other members of this family- ones who might not be present at this very moment-“ he bores his eyes into Arthur Sr. and gets an icy look in return. “Who might not be quite so keen on you popping in whenever you fucking please, Mister Shelby.”

“Just stay out of this Solomons,” Arthur says, before turning his attention back to Tommy where he now stands by Alfie’s side. “You could’ve at least given him a fucking chance.”

“I’m not interested in giving him any _fucking_ chances!” Tommy spits. Arthur Senior puts both hands up in a placating gesture.

Alfie wonders if Arthur notices the way his little brother flinches.  

“No need to get so worked up, Tommy,” Arthur Sr. says, his tone sickeningly sweet. “It’s not good for you. Your mother always felt poorly after getting herself into a state like that. Poor thing was so sensitive.” He tuts and gives Tommy a sympathetic look. Smiles an awful, pitying smile. “Since you’ve inherited her delicate constitution you should stay away from this kind of self-imposed stress. For your own safety.”

Tommy’s gaze has slipped to the floor again. And with every word his father says, he seems to be shrinking ever so slightly, curling inwards on himself. The blush has crept up his neck to his cheeks, painting the pale skin bright red.

And Alfie wonders if Arthur even fucking notices.

And he wonders if Tommy would forgive him if he shot his father right here and now.

“I’ll see you later, Tom,” Arthur Sr. says and puts his hat on, before that thought becomes more than just that, a thought. “When you’re a bit more grounded.”

Here’s where Tommy would’ve given his father some biting reply. But nothing comes. He just stands there, quietly staring down at the floor, cheeks red and arms wrapped around his chest.  

Arthur Senior sweeps out of the kitchen, his eldest son following close behind.

“Well that fucking settles it,” Alfie mutters under his breath, finally pulling himself out of his stunned haze and moving to follow them, fully intent on making Arthur Sr. regret every last fucking word- A hand grasps his wrist.

“Stay,” Tommy pleads.

So he does.  

The front door slams shut.

And Alfie is left standing in the kitchen, feeling like he’s just failed Tommy on every single fucking level.

...

That night in bed, Tommy doesn’t pull him in for a kiss or part his legs invitingly. Instead he silently curls up close, close to Alfie, tucks his hands in under his chin and buries his face in the crook of his neck. And Alfie holds him tightly.

Sometimes he can’t help thinking of Tommy as a broken vase in thin, fine porcelain; one of those ridiculously expensive ones that no one dares to use. Except of course someone did and then fucking dropped the vase and now someone’s got to pick up all the pieces and try to put them back together. He’s done his best to do that over the past months, slowly mending all the cracks until the vase can stand again on its own without falling apart. But tonight, he’s back to holding all the pieces together with his arms.

“What if he really has changed?”

The whisper comes after long minutes of silence. Alfie runs his hand down Tommy’s back.  

 “Well, I can’t say for sure what’s going on with that fucking man. Maybe he has-“

“I’m not going to forgive him,” Tommy says, the words sharp even as they’re muffled against Alfie’s chest

Alfie shakes his head. “Nah, nah, would never ask you to, love. Fucking hell. You don’t owe him a second chance. You don’t owe him shit. Last thing you have to do is forgive him. ”

“But… everyone else. What if they do?”

He sighs.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on with Arthur, alright, but- Well, I might not have known your father ten years ago, but that man doesn’t seem very _changed_ to me. No man worth the time would speak like that about his own son-“

“But they’re true,” Tommy whispers and shifts uneasily in his arms. “All those things he said.”

“It’s not about whether they’re true or not. It’s the way he said them, innit?” Alfie says firmly. “Fuck, making it seem like something to be ashamed about. Liking… taking care of the horses more than boxing. Fucking ridiculous. Any sane man would’ve been proud to have a son like that.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

Alfie begins to stroke Tommy’s hair.

“Being a parent isn’t about fucking… molding your child into some fucked up version of yourself, or whoever the fuck you think they should be. Kids don’t work that way. See, it’s about accepting them for who they are. Or… yeah, something like that.”

He gets the first smile of the entire day when Tommy peers up at him from his hiding-place.

“I’m glad you’re such an expert.”

Alfie kisses his forehead.

Tommy tucks his head back under his chin. He’s quiet for a bit.

“He used to have no control at all over his temper,” he finally tells Alfie. “Anything would set him off. This is different.”   

Alfie hums. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a piece of shit who beat his kids and abandoned his family. Reckon it should take more than a few moments of feigned politeness to earn anyone’s forgiveness.”

Tommy nuzzles the skin on his neck and Alfie tightens the grip instinctively.

He wonders if there are any more confessions coming, but Tommy just stays quiet.

When the nightmares were at their worst, Alfie used to lie awake every night until he was certain Tommy had gone to sleep. To make sure the grip around him didn’t falter. Show him he wasn’t alone, not even for a moment. The nightmares don’t come as often now. And Tommy will wake him up if he needs to. So more often than not, Alfie doesn’t worry about drifting off before him, safe in the knowledge that Tommy will wake him up if he has a bad night.

But not tonight.

Tonight, Alfie stays awake until he slowly feels the body in his arms relax. Hears the tell tale sound of deep breaths. And not until then does he allow himself to actually fall asleep.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments on my last chapter, I will respond to them soon but I just need to get this chapter out right this second or I will just implode. This has been A Struggle, but I really hope you'll enjoy it

 

Alfie follows Tommy like a shadow after the incident in the kitchen. And Tommy lets him. If he’s by himself, if even for a moment, the thoughts start spinning too fast and he’s unable to keep himself from drowning in them. So he doesn’t complain when Alfie wants to come with him to the office in the morning. Doesn’t complain when he stays there the entire day either.

The sun has set when he finally returns to the house. And when he walks up the steps, Tommy can’t help holding his breath and wondering. Considering his options. He pushes the door handle down. The creak seems unnaturally loud.

Alfie has been talking and now he’s paused, as if waiting for an answer from Tommy, but he hasn’t heard a word he’s said. He turns, releasing the door handle.  

“What?”

“Nothing important love, I’m just discussing people’s utter inability to cook chicken decently,” Alfie says. “Fucking fascinating, not that bloody difficult, is it? Any adult should know how to do it. I mean obviously you’re excepted from this rule due to your unearthly beauty, which nature has provided you with to incite a burning urge in others to protect and nurture you.” He pauses to breathe. “But you’d think a restaurant would know how to make a proper meal. Most disappointing dinner I’ve had in a while.”   

Dinner. Yeah, they did have that a little while ago. Alfie did, at least. Tommy can’t seem to swallow past the lump in his throat, and his stomach is full of lead so there’s no room for food. He tried, at least, just to avoid worrying Alfie. Because he knows Alfie took him out to a restaurant in hopes that being out of the house would help his appetite.

The thing is that being out of the house doesn’t help, because it means he eventually has to return. Walk up those steps and into the hallway, and maybe see his father sitting there by their kitchen table.

That’s why he finds himself standing there on the steps up to the house, frozen.

Noticing his hesitation, Alfie’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. The question is silent, by now: the offer of going to London. And God he wishes he could take him up on it.

But he can’t.

Instead he opens the door.

Alfie’s hand is still on his back as they walk through the dark hallway. A square of warm light is spilling out from the kitchen doorway, and Tommy forgets to breathe again, tries to focus on the warm palm on his back…

“Tommy?”

His stomach jolts, twists into a cramp just at the sound of Arthur’s voice because if Arthur is there then-

He stops in his tracks and turns towards the kitchen before he has time to change his mind.

Arthur is alone by the table, seated with a glass of whiskey and looking quite worse for wear, eyes bloodshot and face flushed.

“Can we talk?”  

Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”

He’s tired. So ungodly fucking tired, when the sudden burst of adrenaline dies back down.

Arthur shakes his head. “No, fuck, got to get this off my chest or I’ll never be able to sleep.”

“Seems like that’s your fucking problem,” Alfie speaks up before he can find any words. Arthur shoots a glare at him but then looks to Tommy again, and something in his eyes makes him walk into the kitchen before he has time to understand what his legs are doing.

Alfie is close behind, and Arthur opens his mouth to protest.

“He stays,” Tommy says and stands himself by the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Alfie stands close enough for their shoulders to touch. It grounds him.

“So, I’m here. Talk.”  

Arthur runs a thumb along the ridges in the whiskey glass, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Just thought you should know that dad won’t be coming back here,” he finally says.

“What did you do?” The question shoots out automatically. Arthur grunts.

“Fuck, nothing, just told him to fuck off is all,” he says. “You were right about him, you know. Just took a couple of glasses for it to show.”

“So he hasn’t stopped drinking then? What a fucking surprise,” Alfie mutters.

Tommy retrieves a glass from one of the cabinets and pours himself a whiskey, supressing the urge to throw a triumphant ‘I told you so’ in his brother’s face.

“You alright?” he asks, and Arthur waves his hand dismissively.

“Yeah, fuck, I’m fine.”

Arthur pours the remaining whiskey in the bottle into his glass, staring intently at the amber liquid. Tommy waits for him to continue, seating himself by the table in some show of patience. Arthur’s chest heaves as he pulls in a long breath.

“That time… when uncle Charlie came home with you, and you were completely bashed up,” he says, lingering on the words as if they all carry a tremendous weight. Tommy’s blood runs cold. “He said you’d been trampled by a horse. And I remember thinking it was strange, because you’d barely even been kicked before- Almost twenty fucking years spending all that time in the stables and they’d never hurt you. None of them.“

Tommy’s mouth goes dry. “Arthur-“

Arthur looks as if he’s disappeared completely into his own head and doesn’t listen, doesn’t catch the desperate twinge to his voice.

“Seemed like an awful lot of damage for a horse to do. All those broken bones. And your head. I should’ve fucking realised…”  

Tommy suddenly realises he’s wrapped his arms around his ribs, as if to soothe a pain long gone.

His tongue feels like lead in his mouth. Arthur sets his eyes firmly on him then.

“Did dad do that to you?”

Tommy looks down at the table top.

Arthur waits for an answer.

The silence is going to suffocate him any moment now.

“Tommy?” Alfie seats himself next to him by the table and he feels his eyes on him. And he silently begs that he won’t get angry- He can’t come up with a logical reason  _why_ he’d be angry, all he knows is that he can’t handle raised voices, or glasses being thrown across the room. Not now -

But Alfie’s hand just comes to rest on his knee. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Arthur asks quietly, when the silence finally becomes answer enough.

“Tell you what, Arthur?” Tommy keeps staring down at the table. “That dad caught me kissing a man and was so furious he fucking beat me within an inch of my life?” Now, he sets his eyes on Arthur. “That it was my fault he left us, because he couldn’t even stand to look at me after that?”

Arthur holds his gaze, but says nothing.

“If uncle Charlie hadn’t showed up, he would’ve killed me,” Tommy says. It feels strange, to finally admit it out loud, what he’s known for years: That if his uncle hadn’t entered the stables right when he did, his dad would’ve kicked and kicked until his skull finally cracked. 

There’s something in people’s eyes, when they set out to do that kind of damage. Tommy has seen it in plenty of men after that: That pitch black darkness that settles behind the irises.

But the first time he saw it was in his father’s eyes that night.

Alfie’s hand has fallen down from his knee. Tommy glances at them, where he clenches them between his own knees. They’re shaking. He should reach out, but his fingers feel completely numb

“I’m sorry.”

Tommy shakes his head at Arthur’s words.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “All in the past, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but…”

“So it’s all fine.”

Staring down into his whiskey, Arthur nods slowly, before emptying the glass and getting up from the table.  

“What made you change your mind?” Tommy asks, stopping him in his tracks. “About dad.”

Now it’s Arthur who shakes his head. Blinks. Dazed. “Not important. What’s important is that… he won’t be coming back here.”

And with that, he leaves the kitchen.

Tommy stands up too. To leave- to- to do something. His eyes are burning, suddenly. And the lump in his throat is becoming painful and no matter how hard he tries to swallow it down he can’t-  

“Tommy-“

Alfie’s hand is on his shoulder again, reminding him that he’s still there. He turns. Tommy expects rage, expects him to spit curses and threats over his father and ‘ _fucking swear that the next time I see him I’ll-“_ But Alfie’s eyes are so sad he’s not prepared for it-

“I’m so sorry.” That’s all he says.

But it’s the way he says it, as if the entire weight of the world rests in those few words. His voice won’t quite hold. _What are you sorry about? Not your fucking fault is it, you weren’t even there- why would you be sorry-_ Tommy should say something, but the lump in his throat is in the way.

He can’t keep swallowing down the tears, and they begin seeping down his cheeks. The sobs that follow wrack his entire body, shake it to its core. He buries his face in Alfie’s shirt when the familiar arms wrap around his back.  

And Alfie holds him as he cries.

…. 

He wakes up from another nightmare.

 It’s different from the tunnels, when he’ll bolt upright and gasp frantically for breaths, choking on mud and dirt long gone. Instead he wakes up with a sob dying in his throat, face buried in a pillow wet from tears. He’s not sure what’s worse. And unlike after those more violent awakenings, Alfie stays asleep next to him. Although Tommy aches to reach out for him, listen to soft reassurances as he holds him, he can’t bring himself to do it, not tonight. Tonight, he can’t bear that look in his eyes.

He reaches for the shirt at the foot of the bed instead –Alfie’s old shirt- hangs it over his shoulders and slips out of bed. He pulls his trousers on and fumbles for his cigarettes and the lighter in the bedside drawer, before quietly slipping out of the room. A drink, that’s what he needs.

The floors feel cold under his bare feet as he walks through the corridor and down the stairs, lighting a cigarette as he goes. It succeeds in grounding him slightly, the familiar sensation of dragging smoke into his lungs.  _In and out, it was just a bad dream-_

The crash in the kitchen lines up perfectly with the moment he sets foot inside the room.  

His father is standing there, staring dumbly at a broken glass on the floor, face red and swaying slightly on his feet.

Tommy can smell the whiskey even as he stands on the threshold.

There’s a quiet thud as he drops the pack of cigarettes and the lighter on the floor.

Arthur Sr. sets his bloodshot eyes on him, and the gaze is so familiar that Tommy feels himself freezing, shrinking, just from being pinned by it. 

“Close the door, boy,” Arthur Sr. slurs, turning to pick out another glass from the cupboard. When Tommy doesn’t immediately obey, he repeats, sharper this time, “Close the door and sit down. Go on. Do as you’re told.”

Every fibre of his being screams at him to run, now. But he can’t even feel his legs.

He’s got three options: Run, scream for help, or do as he’s told.

Tommy closes the door, stomach clenching when he sees the tremor in his hand.

“Sit down. We’re going to have- have a little chat you and me,” Arthur Sr. mutters and nods towards the chair. Tommy remains standing. A finger shoots out, gesturing pointedly towards the chair. “Sit down. Or I’ll make you.”

Arthur Sr. sets down the whiskey glass on the table with a pang.

Tommy sits, and earns himself a sneer.

“Good boy. Finally learnt how to obey have you?” Arthur Sr. says. “Bet he’s got a tight leash on you, the Jew. Beaten some of that fucking defiance out of you, has he?”

Feeling his cheeks beginning to burn, Tommy takes the cigarette from his mouth and exhales a cloud of smoke into the air. He should say something, but his head has gone completely blank –there’s nothing there to pull from. Even the smoke seems to tremble in the air.  

“Could never get you to fucking listen,” his dad grumbles around the edge of his glass. “That was the fucking problem. You never fucking listened.” He glances up over the edge, leaning back in his chair and watching Tommy with a smirk “So, what has he done then, to get you all timid, eh? Does he use that cane on you, perhaps?”

Tommy finds his eyes slipping to the table top –he can’t help himself. The humiliation churns in the pit of his stomach, drowning the reply he wants to give. It feels like he’s a kid again- twelve years old and looking up at his father through eyelashes drenched with tears.

“What do you want?” he finally grits out, sucking in another breath of his cigarette.  

Arthur Sr. takes his time before replying, emptying his whiskey and pouring another glass. He’s still looking at Tommy as if he’s a wolf circling a helpless rabbit.

“Your brother… I must say he surprised me,” he finally drawls. “I thought at least one of my sons had some fucking backbone. But apparently Arthur would rather stay as your fucking guard dog than take his rightful place at the head of this company.”

Tommy takes a drag of the cigarette. Then another. And then he has to put it out, because his fucking hands are trembling and he knows that his father has noticed.

“Yeah, must’ve been a real disappointment…” he says, struggling to pull the words from the foggy void that is his head. “Coming back and realising Arthur wasn’t in charge.”

The silence is all the answer he needs and he continues, “Suppose you hoped you’d just be able to come here and gain back control over the company. A bit harder to do if it’s not your favourite son in charge.”  

Arthur Sr. swirls the whiskey in his glass, downing another mouthful. He takes a good long while before he answers.

“It takes a lot to be in charge of a business like ours,” he begins slowly, the whiskey muddling his speech. “And I always figured you didn’t have what it takes. The family is one thing, but other people… you need to have control over those too. But it seems I underestimated you a tad. People in this town respect you. Fear you, even. Some of them.” Another gulp of whiskey. The bottle is half empty, and a tiny flicker of hope lights up in Tommy’s chest. His father is dangerous when drunk, prone to violence and just as precise with his blows as he is when sober. But if he’s just drunk enough then maybe- Arthur Sr. empties his glass. “The thing is, people are so fickle… and that respect can very quickly be lost. Maybe if certain… facts came out, they’d see you in a different light. ”

Tommy’s stomach twists in a violent cramp. He digs his nails into the soft skin on his wrist. His dad sneers.

“I wonder how they’d react… if it came out that Thomas Shelby is a fucking queer,” he says. “That the only reason you got access to London was because you whored yourself out to your supposed _business partner_.”

Tommy reaches across the table for the bottle and takes a swig, not much, just to get rid of the dryness in his mouth.

“And rumours spread so easily,” Arthur Sr. continues, refilling his glass. “Might even reach some of those policemen you don’t have on your fucking payroll yet.”  

“Is this what you talked to Arthur about?” Tommy asks. How he manages to get any words out at all, he has no idea.  

“I just gave him a few pointers. Tried to steer him in the right direction, back to his rightful place at the head of this company. But apparently he’s become almost as weak as you.”

“You shouldn’t have told him what happened, that day in the stables,” Tommy says, feigning indifference. “Maybe then you could’ve kept up this charade a bit longer.”

Arthur Sr. empties the rest of his whiskey. A bit more, just a bit more and he should be too drunk to pose a threat anymore…

“Know what? I honestly didn’t think he’d mind. Thought he already knew, even. But then he started asking… fucking questions about why I left. So I had to answer, didn’t I? Thought he’d see I only did it for the good of this family.”

_But Arthur did mind- he did and he asked their father to leave- he picked Tommy…_ Tommy tries to remind himself of that now, but still, he imagines the conversation, imagines how it could’ve gone and the mere thought twists like a knife in his chest.

He’s been quiet for too long. It’s a sign of weakness and his father picks up on it instantly.

“Take a fucking look at yourself,” he slurs, gaze drifting down Tommy’s face. “Are you proud of what you’ve become?”

It feels like the eyes burn him when they reach his neck, his collarbones where he knows there will be marks from Alfie kissing him. Tommy has to resist the urge to pull the shirt tighter around himself, overwhelmed by a sudden urge to shield himself from the gaze.

The question makes a lot of unwelcomed thoughts bubble up, of what he’s become. Of all the pieces he lost in France and how he might never be completely whole again… But he’s become someone who Alfie can love. That has to count for something.

Tommy forces himself to meet his father’s eyes. “At least I’m nothing like you. A pathetic drunk who ran the family business into the ground. Gambled away all our money. And left us with absolutely nothing.”

The chair crashes to the ground when Arthur Sr. stands up.

“Watch your mouth, boy.”  

 Tommy stands up too, a sudden burst of defiant rage loosening his tongue, finally.

“How does it feel?” he spits. “To come home to the family you abandoned and see that they don’t need you. That they don’t even fucking want you here.” He should be close enough to the door; His father has to walk around the table to get to him-“That even your favourite son picked his  _worthless_ little brother over you?”

Something dark and dangerous flashes in his father’s eyes, and he instinctively takes a step back. But one step is all he gets. Then the side of his face and his shoulder explodes in pain, white flashing light erupting behind his eyelids. The sound of wood shattering…

Tommy is on the floor, looking up at his father who stands above him with the remnants of a chair in his right hand. There’s a loud ringing in his ears, making it difficult to think clear but he somehow realises his father has just broken that chair over his head.

He’s so big. Looming over Tommy, big and angry and panting like a bull. Or maybe it’s Tommy who’s small—

Arthur Sr. reaches down, grabs him by the hair and jerks him up on his feet, and Tommy dangles from his grip like a ragdoll. The back of his head slams into a wall as he’s pinned against it. Everything is happening too fast, his head won’t keep up- He grabs his wrists, tries to tear them away. It only earns him a throaty laugh, the sour stench of whiskey hitting him like a wave.

“Look at you squirm. Fucking helpless aren’t you?”

Arthur Sr. watches his struggle with something akin to amusement in his eyes. Another huff of whiskey hits him in the face as he snorts.

“Know what the most pathetic thing about all of this is? It’s the way you fucking look at him. That you’ve fooled yourself into thinking he actually  _cares_ about you. What do you think he fucking sees in you? You’re nothing but a needy, willing thing that he can stick his cock into.”

There are a million retorts Tommy should be giving right now, but he can’t come up with a single one. The stench of whiskey is making him feel sick-

And the hay prickles the side of his face as he stares up at his father from the stable floor _._

_“Always known there was something wrong with you, boy-“_

The pain in his head is so sharp that it sends bolts of lightning throughout his skull

_“Aren’t you enough of a burden on this family already?”_

_Breathing is impossible because it hurts so much-_

_“-We’d be better off without you-“_

“Alfie loves me.” It just slips out. Tommy doesn’t mean for it to happen. He blinks. His father’s face is much closer suddenly, inches away, and he’s not on the floor-

Arthur Sr. barks out a laugh.

“Oh, isn’t that fucking precious. What exactly about you does he love, eh? Which one of all your _admirable qualities_?”  

Tommy tries to swallow. Tries to get his tongue to co-operate but it feels like a foreign object in his mouth. He wants to close his eyes, wants to look anywhere but at his father. But he doesn’t close them. Instead he meets his gaze.

 “It doesn’t fucking matter what you say,” he chokes out. “Not anymore. Alfie loves me- And there’s nothing you can do to change that.” 

His smirk finally fading, Arthur Sr. sways on his feet. Tommy ceases the opportunity and drives his knee up into his crotch. He’s too close to get any proper leverage, but the blow makes him double over in pain and stumble backwards.

Heart thundering loudly in his chest, Tommy sets for the door. Everything is spinning around him, spinning and rocking and his ears are ringing- His fingers close around the handle right when the arm reaches around his neck.

His wrists take the blunt of the fall, he’s being tossed around as if he weighs nothing at all and he hits the floor with a stifled yelp of pain. A kick hits him in the side, pushing him onto his back and knocking the air from his lungs. His father has a livid expression on his face. Like that night in the stables, eyes black with rage.

Then he can’t really see… everything becomes blurry, swimming in and out of view.

“Get up.”

He scrambles to get to his knees, but another kick lands in his side and sends him crashing to the floor.

“Go on. Get up and fight like a man.”

He wants dad to stop screaming. How is he supposed to get up when the blows keep raining down on him? Everything has become very dark, suddenly, dark and blurry and the ringing in his ears won’t stop, it almost drowns out the shouts. The pain in his ribs makes it hard to breathe- He curls inwards on himself, instinctively trying to protect the soft parts of his abdomen.

When the kicks suddenly stop, it takes a moment for him to realise it.

There are still noises; shouting, furniture scraping against the floor. He opens his eyes, can’t remember having closed them, and sees his father being wrenched backwards, away from him, by a familiar bearded figure.

Alfie looks if possible even more livid than his dad, shirt hanging open and clad only in a pair of boxers under that. The scene fades in and out of view. But it clears up enough for him to see Alfie drive a fist straight into Arthur Sr.’s jaw. Darkness again- then Arthur is there too, in a similar state of undress, as if he’s just thrown himself out of bed and rushed down to the kitchen-

“Tommy.” Alfie’s face comes into view, right next to him as he kneels on the floor. “You with me?”

Yes, he tries to say, but all that comes out is some pathetic whimper in pain.   

He’s pulled upright, into Alfie’s arms.  

Arthur Sr. has picked himself off the floor and is locked in a struggle with his eldest son, who finally pushes him hard enough to send him stumbling backwards to the opposite side of the room. They reach a stalemate where they both stare each other down: Arthur with his fists clenched at his sides and Arthur Senior wiping at a trickle of blood that’s pouring from his nose. He looks down at the blood with an almost comically surprised expression on his face, before turning his gaze back to Arthur.  

“This is between me and your brother,” he says. “Move out of the way.”

Arthur stands firm, shaking his head slowly. “Not this time.”

The air in the kitchen becomes ice cold and completely still. Even the dust in the air seems to freeze. Alfie’s grip tightens around him. Arthur Senior looks at his oldest son. Sways on his feet.

“I’m disappointed in you, Arthur. See, you could’ve been something… instead you’re stuck here, being some fucking guard dog.”  

“At least I still have a family that wants me here.”

“If you cared at all about this family you’d see that he’s not fit to fucking run it,” Arthur Sr. spits and points accusingly at Tommy as he stumbles forward.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Alfie growls and moves to stand but Tommy clings desperately to him – _if Alfie lets him go he’ll drown, he’ll break-_ and Alfie settles back down. Holds him tighter, still.

“I will only tell you this one time,” Arthur grits out. “Get the fuck out of this house.”

Arthur Sr. stares at his eldest for another moment, before turning his eyes to Tommy again. Alfie’s arm comes up around his shoulders, hand cradling his head against his chest. Shields him.

“You’re not right in the head, boy. Never was. And if I’d had my way I would’ve fucking crushed it under my boot that day in the-“

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence because two things happen right then –Alfie’s entire body tenses like an animal ready to pounce, and Arthur punches their father in the face.  

Tommy watches with an odd sense of fascination as he crumples to the floor and remains there.

“About time someone did that.”

Polly’s has silently appeared in the doorway to the kitchen and is looking down at the unconscious figure, mouth set in a stern line. They all remain silent for a moment.

Tommy suddenly feels all too well just how much his head is pounding.

Then, the moment passes, and too many things begin happening at once. Hurried steps are coming down the stairs, and then Finn is barrelling towards him, eyes wide and frightened and asking a million questions at once. Tommy can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but Alfie seems to answer for him. Esme and John are there too, suddenly, helping Arthur drag Arthur Sr. towards the hallway while he begins coming t slowly, groaning and struggling weakly against the grip.

Tommy buries his face in Alfie’s chest and closes his eyes. Easier that way, not having to face it all. And Alfie holds him tightly, anchoring him even as the floor seems to rock underneath him and all the noises in the kitchen are entirely too loud.

“It’s okay, love, you’re safe now,” Alfie whispers. “Alright? I’ve got you.”

Tommy believes him. But he still doesn’t open his eyes.

The front door opens, and then it slams shut again with a bang.

A little while later they’re all crammed into the quite small living room. Tommy finds himself on the sofa, being doted on by far too many people at once –John is asking repeatedly how many fingers he’s holding up, changing the amount so quickly that Tommy can barely register it. Finn wants to know if he needs another blanket despite covering him with three already, and Alfie wonders if he’s feeling nauseous, all while poking and prodding different areas on his body searching for broken bones. He doesn’t seem to find any, but Tommy feels as if he’s been run over by a tank, and can’t really answer any of the many questions. He just wants to sleep now. And he tries to tell Alfie this, but his jaw feels oddly numb and won’t move properly…

It’s Polly who finally makes things settle down. She enters the living room holding a tray of tea and stating that everyone needs to sit and give Tommy some room to breathe.

No one needs to be told twice.

Alfie sits down on the sofa and gently cradles Tommy’s head in his lap, while the other members of the family take to sitting on top of or leaned against various pieces of furniture as Polly begins handing out teacups.

“There we go. Now, Arthur, why don’t you fill the rest of us in on this little spectacle and let your brother rest for a bit?” she says when she’s settled herself by Tommy’s feet on the sofa.  Arthur is quick to oblige.

Tommy closes his eyes and just listens to the voices around him, and for the first time in days, a feeling of being utterly safe settles deep into his chest. The further Arthur’s story progresses, the more voices join his, asking questions, adding commentary, and they all blend together, turning into a soft, distant hum. Alfie’s hand is in his hair, gently stroking it.

He drifts in and out of that sleepy, half conscious sort of state, and every time he comes too again, the conversation seems to consist of fewer voices.

One by one, they disappear, until the only ones remaining are Arthur and Alfie’s.

“Is he asleep?”

Alfie’s hand is still now, but it stays on his head, palm warm against his cheek. Tommy can picture the tender smile on his face when he answers: “Yeah, seems that way.”

“Should he really be sleeping? What with the head trauma and all that?”

“Nah, sleeping is fine, just got to wake him up every few hours to check how he’s doing.”

Silence.

“Got to say, Solomons, you throw a surprisingly good punch.”  

Alfie hums.

“I feel obliged to say the same. Ever thought about going full time with this boxing thing, eh? Heard from very reliable sources there’s good money in betting on the sport.”

“What about you? Got the _right build_ for it and all that.”

Quiet laughter.

“And ruin this fair face? Nah mate, I’ll leave that to you.”

“You got that beard covering half of it. And I bet Tommy would love you even with a crooked nose, the mad bastard.”

The fingers begin carding gently through his hair again and Tommy feels himself slipping back into sleep.

“Might be right about that, Arthur.”

This is the first conversation he’s ever heard the two of them have which doesn’t end in threats of violence and sharp glares.

And with that thought, Tommy falls asleep.

….

He’s stuck in bed the following day.

Concussion, the doctor states after an unnecessary visit that Alfie insisted upon when finding Tommy out of bed and throwing up in the wash basin midmorning. Concussion, bruised ribs, more than a few bruises and scrapes, but nothing is broken, as if by some miracle.

“A few days in bed and you’ll be as good as new,” he tells Tommy, and then leaves again. Tommy finds that it’s not quite as hard these days, listening to someone telling him to stay in bed, so he does. Not that hard of a choice to make when Alfie is there with him. And when his head throbs dully with pain every time he blinks.

In the early hours of the afternoon, Alfie leaves the bed to go down to the kitchen, and that’s when Arthur shows up in the bedroom.

He’s got a black eye from a punch that Tommy can’t remember, but other than that he looks pretty unscathed.

“Brought you… tea,” he grunts and sets down a cup on the nightstand.

Tommy glances at it, and then up at Arthur. Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Thank you,” he says, if only to break him out of the stupor. Nodding slowly, Arthur remains standing there in the middle of the room, scratching his chin absentmindedly. Then he pulls up a chair and sits down with a sigh. He takes a long breath, as if he’s gathering himself to jump from a very high place into ice cold water.

“I’m sorry.”

Tommy wants to sigh or roll his eyes, but his head hurts too much for things like that.

“Stop fucking apologizing.”

“I should’ve looked after you better. When we were kids.” Arthur’s says, undeterred, eyes falling on the scar on Tommy’s cheek. “Should’ve realised after that thing with the knife how bad things were…”

The old scar seems to burn with fresh pain and Tommy resists the urge to pull the cover up over his face.

“You were a kid too,” he says instead and stares up at the ceiling. “And I didn’t need to be fucking looked after.”

“Yeah. You did,” Arthur mutters. “And if I’d been any kind of decent older brother I would’ve done that. I’ve never really… been there for you, you know? Maybe I should’ve said something when I realised that you- yeah, you know, that you were into blokes… Doesn’t seem fair that you were so alone with all of that.”

Tommy reaches for the teacup and takes a sip hoping to buy himself some time. They don’t talk about this. Ever. So he doesn’t know how to respond. He just silently drinks the tea while Arthur stares out the window, showing no signs of planning to leave.

When the teacup is empty, Tommy sinks deeper into the pillows and Arthur finally seems to snap out of his thoughts, blinking

“You tired?”

Tommy suddenly realises his eyes have slipped closed, and hums in response. Arthur’s footsteps creak across the floor.

“You did knock him out with one punch,” he mutters then, peering up at Arthur who stops on the threshold.  

He shrugs but Tommy thinks he can see a hint of a smile behind the moustache. “Least I could do, wasn’t it? Seeing as you’re my little brother and all. Wasn’t a big deal.”

The door creaks and before Tommy can think he whispers -so quietly that he hopes Arthur won’t hear it: “It was to me.”

Then he promptly curls up under the covers and pretends to be asleep, hoping Arthur won’t linger to see the flush creeping up his neck. The pillow at least hides a bit of his face.

He’s half asleep within seconds. So maybe he imagines the creaking footsteps coming across the floor again. And someone pulling the duvet up higher over his shoulders.  

…

The next time he wakes up, it’s to Alfie sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling down at him.

“Hi there sleeping beauty,” he says softly. “Think you can manage to eat something?”

Tommy hums and squints at the tray on the bedside table. Alfie has baked bread.

“In a bit,” he mumbles and sinks deeper into the pillow.

Alfie doesn’t stress it, instead he just continues stroking his hair.

“You feeling okay?”

Tommy nods, happily leaning into the offered touch.

For a long while that’s all that exists: Alfie’s warm hand in his hair, the calm gaze lingering on his face. He can feel it even with his eyes closed. Then a finger traces slowly down his cheek and Tommy opens his eyes a little. There’s a crease between Alfie’s eyebrows.

“This scar… You keep touching it. Whenever your father’s brought up. Took me a while to figure out the pattern. And after everything that happened yesterday, I do feel like I have to ask how you got it. If that man is somehow involved.”

Tommy closes his eyes again. Alfie goes back to stroking his hair. He allows himself a moment to brace himself.

“Dad never liked my eyes,” he says and looks up at him through his lashes. “Said they made him uneasy. Sometimes when he was drunk he’d… say he wanted to cut them out.”Pause. Breathe.“And one time he had a knife.” 

Alfie’s jaw clenches until Tommy can hear the teeth grit together.  “The list of things I would like to subject this man to could fill an entire fucking book.”

Tommy shakes his head and smiles a little.

“Doesn’t matter what he thinks of them. I like them. They remind me of mum.”

Alfie smiles down at him. And he realises that it really doesn’t matter.

“And you like them,” he says. “That’s enough.”

“Like them?” Alfie exclaims. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it, love. No, you’ve got the kind of eyes that men would conquer entire countries for! Start wars over. And every moment I get to look into them is an honour and a privilege-”

Tommy laughs and listens to Alfie proclaim his love of his eyes with increasingly convoluted metaphors, all while smiling brightly and pressing scratchy kisses against every surface of his face that he can find.

And it’s enough.

It’s much more than enough.


End file.
